In Arms
by Cider Sky
Summary: At the end of the day they're not just a tank crew, they're brothers and brothers take care of each other. Or, five times Fury's crew took care of each other and the one time they couldn't. Serious Bromancing. Ambiguous relationships.
1. a short prayer for the sick, I

**In Arms**

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><p>At the end of the day they're not just a tank crew, they're brothers and brothers take care of each other. Or, five times Fury's crew took care of each other and the one time they couldn't.<p>

**Author's Note:** I don't imagine anyone will read this; I just couldn't help but write _something_ about this painfully wonderful movie. These characters just grabbed me and demanded to be explored. If there are readers out there, I hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it.

There's also no real point to this other than to explore the brotherhood between Fury's team. So, in term so plot, its all kind of connected yet disjointed. Slice of life, I suppose. Also, Red is the fifth member for some of these vignettes; I feel like Wardaddy mentioned him very briefly in the movie. If not, well, that's okay! Norman will make an appearance, of course, though it will be in only two of the chapters.

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><p><strong>a short prayer for the sick, part one<strong>

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><p>"Bible –" The man in question winced against the way the comm crackled at the sudden intrusion of noise, " - up top. You need fresh air."<p>

Fresh air sounded good, except he was wizened enough to know that on a hot summer day like this, the corpses and mud and excrement of war would reek something foul.

No, he preferred the stuffy, humidity of the tank. Besides, with the way his limbs shook and the general weakness that had taken him, standing sounded a miserable venture.

Boyd brought a shaky hand up to his face and pinched the bridge of his nose. He exhaled a breath and then wiped the back of his hand across his sweat soaked forehead.

There was something to be said about taking ill in the midst of wartime, and on the frontlines at that. Misery on top of misery; so is war. But this, like any other trial, would pass.

"Bible," the tank commander's voice rose in a threatening lilt, "don't make me send Grady." Bible stared ahead from his slumped position, at Grady's legs, his head spinning with each rattle that went through Fury's frame; he didn't know why the man couldn't let him lay in piece.

Though he did. It was the man's way. A very specific brand of care and attention – mothering, even – that came out in orders and terseness.

"Man, you should listen," Gordo's voice rang clear, softer than Collier's; Boyd looked over towards his position; the man's back facing him as he drove, his head poking out of the hatch. He watched the driver's steady hands reaching blindly yet knowingly over the controls, "it's hotter than hell in there."

It was, true enough. But he was a Southern man and a little heat and humidity wasn't likely to get him too bothered, even if Fury had adopted its own swamp-like atmosphere.

"I'm just enjoyin' some peace and quiet for once. That's all." He said into the comm as he let his head fall back against the metal, his eyes shutting against a wave of nausea.

"Peace and quiet?" Grady laughed through the comm line, "Ain't gonna find that here, no sir, you hear that boys, peace and quiet –"

Boyd groaned; he wasn't likely to find such a thing until the war was over and his feet were on American soil. He longed for that day, more than anything.

"Easy, Gordo, up and over –" Boyd sat up in an automatic response; despite his earlier plea for respite, he didn't quite like not being able to see what was coming once they were moving. No tank man did, though he figured if anyone was use to riding blind, it was Grady, who's position had him in constant movement within Fury.

Boyd eased himself into his seat, stomach churning and muscles aching, and leaned into the periscope's sight.

A mountain of rot lay before them, dead livestock piled high; a Nazi parting gift for farmers unwilling to relinquish their homestead and an effective roadblock for troops as they crossed the high ridge.

Boyd sat back in his chair - he didn't need to see anymore – and held tightly to Fury's frame as she suddenly jerked upwards, mounting the heap of decay. The smell hit him rather immediately, marrying the jostled movements of the tank, and his already rolling stomach responded.

He reached somewhat blindly for an empty ammo tin and as soon as it was in his hands he found himself retching.

He could feel Red pat his boot as Grady laughed over the comm., saying something in a teasing tone; he was far too busy losing his stomach contents to register what it was. It certainly wasn't important, he was sure.

Regardless, he bit out an apology, as was his way.

"Sorry –" Boyd let out between bouts; he hadn't the presence of mind, _or time_, to turn off his comm. and they were all forced to listen to his sick.

"Leave him be, Grady." Collier split through his sick haze and Boyd found it the proper time to remove his helmet, to get the voices out of his ears, even if temporary.

Fury dipped, demounting the fetid pile and God help him … Boyd buried his head deeper into the ammo tin.

He wondered, briefly, if the Good Lord was going to see to it that he died of dehydration. It would probably be kinder than what was afforded to most.

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><p>After some undetermined amount of time Fury rolled to a stop. Boyd fought the urge to groan from his place over the ammo tin. He had managed to close the lid but hadn't the energy to store it. Instead, he was leaned over the putrid thing, head bent miserably into his folded arms.<p>

He could at least spare a word of thanks to the Good Lord for not calling him to battle, as indisposed as he had been during this stretch of travel.

"Boyd –" Don's voice broke through his dazed misery and he could feel movement behind him and then a hand on his shoulder.

"Now I know you know I don't like asking twice." There was no real bite to it, not like the way he got with Grady when the man just wasn't hearing him, which seemed often.

"No, sir." He said as he lifted his head, though he hadn't heard him the first time. The man's hand moved to the back of his neck.

"Come on." Boyd carefully placed the tin on the ground – he would deal with it later – and pushed himself out of the seat. His knees gave slightly but Don's strong arms were quick to steady him.

"I'm fine –" He started, reaching a hand out to brace himself against Fury's frame, but Don wasn't impressed, his hand not moving from where it was, clenching the back of his jacket.

"I can see that." Don gave him a short sad smirk and a nod. One would think Grady or Gordo made the worst patients but it was, in truth, Boyd who had proven most difficult. He was quite good at looking over others but unusually terrible at minding his own health and person.

Out of the five of them he was most likely to leave the tank, to walk into an active battlefield in search of the miserable and wounded; Don wouldn't say so, but he suspected the man had more faith than he ought to in His protection.

That or … well, he didn't much care for the or.

"Hold on." the tank commander gave the man a pat on the back, making sure he was holding on to something as he climbed out of the hatch and then reached down, offering a hand.

He watched as Boyd grabbed the rungs and planted his feet, and then reached up to grab his hand. He hoisted him up, allowing him to collect himself as he moved to sit on the lip of the hatch, feet dangling inside.

"It'll pass." And for once he can say it and mean it; he couldn't say the war would pass, or the grief. He couldn't say much about either. In a way it felt good to say something certain when he was surrounded by shit and shortened lives.

Boyd looked up at him, his hair stuck up like a child's and his face a sickly grey, save for the fever flushing his cheeks. He didn't envy the man; he looked miserable – physically, mentally - in a place that was already unbearable.

He eyed him for a moment, hating to see any one of his men suffer any more deeply than was permissible by war. Boyd stared back, wiping at his forehead before patting his jacket pocket, fishing out a cigarette.

"We waiting on orders?" The gunner cleared his throat, attempting to remove the weakness from his speech. Don offered the man a light, which he accepted with a grateful nod.

"No, orders stand. We'll head for Falaise tomorrow." The tank commander surveyed the land before him, briefly, before turning back to his gunner. The man's brow furrowed slightly, the gesture deepening the hollows under his eyes.

"Tomorrow?" They had meant to travel through the night and stop briefly to rest before dawn, when the light was most sparing. It was nearly night now, dusk even, and they hadn't more than three hours of land to cross.

"Krauts aren't going anywhere and the platoons been going four days now. We could all use the rest. Cartwright made the call." Don gestured towards the tank a hundred feet ahead of them; it too was at rest and the men had gratefully gathered at her tracks for a break.

Boyd glanced down as though in rumination and then back up at him, his eyes bright with fever but unmistakably relieved. It was replaced rather immediately by guilt because, well, Boyd was a smart man and wouldn't approve. He opened his mouth to say something but Don was quick to cut him off.

"Come on, Reds making coffee and Gradys cooking something up."

"Cooking?" Boyd looked up – it wasn't often they used their canned goods; they preferred to save them for miserable weather and dire situations; not hot summer days in relative 'peace'.

"His idea. Alright then, enough talk." Boyd flicked his half finished cigarette off the side of the tank and together they eased off Fury's frame, feet landing with a squelch in fresh mud.

Don held on to the back of the gunner's jacket as they made their way somewhat slowly to the front of the tank where Grady, Gordo and Red had gathered. The man's feet moved unsteadily, catching in the mud, and he nearly tripped when the ground leveled out into firm, grassy purchase.

"Careful –" Don hated seeing any of his men like this, hated knowing that should they be needed that he would put Bible behind that gun and expect him to perform, would be hard on him when he missed.

He also knew, however, that the men held themselves to that standard. They all answered the call, regardless of the situation, and were incredibly reliable.

Once Grady had spend a firefight loading with a dislocated shoulder and there had been more than one occasion where Gordo had driven with a concussion. Red and Bible had been burned by grease spills too many times to count and he himself had suffered enough shrapnel spray up top that he was rarely without a scratch or bruise.

There was something particularly bothersome about Bible being out of commission. It probably had something to do with the fact that Bible was the comforting word when they were hurt or despondent. When it was him who was sick or injured, well, things got quiet, as if they knew they couldn't match Bible's calming comfort.

Needless to say, he felt rather inadequate as he helped deposit the man onto the overturned bucket one of the others had set out for him.

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><p>Don was keeping him upright and he was thankful for it; being forced into motion again had set into him that debilitating nausea and had the man let him be, he would have slept through the next few hours in Fury.<p>

"Careful –" The tank commander warned when he stumbled over the changed terrain. He nodded, though he was certain the gesture was imperceptible; he was always comforted by the man's quiet assistance, could depend on his nearly stoic strength.

An overturned bucket was waiting for him and Boyd sat down gratefully assisted by Don's steady hold, the twenty-foot walk seemingly having exhausted him.

"Gentlemen," the sergeant said, giving them each a quick look, his way of taking inventory on the well being of his men, "take it easy. I'm going to have a word with Cartwright."

The man gave them a final nod and turned away, leaving them to their small fire. Boyd dipped his head in acknowledgement as their attention turned towards him, cigarette dangling between his lips.

"Hell, man," Grady said from his crouched position, stove clamps holding a can of beans in his hand, "you _do_ look like shit."

The man said it as though they'd been discussing him; there was nothing for it, they probably had been.

"Still better looking than you, Coon-Ass –" Gordo patted him on the back and Boyd closed his eyes against the ache it sent through his head.

"Hey, easy, now –" He muttered, doing his best to look as though he was feeling at least slightly better than he did.

Boyd watched as Grady tossed a rock at the other man, nearly forgetting the beans, dipping them briefly into the heart of the fire.

"Bible." Red pushed a mug into his hands; it was hot, comforting in a weird way, despite the near unbearable heat of his own body. Small comforts, he knew, and he was grateful for it.

"Thank you." Grady huffed at that because the man had a preoccupation with his use of the word, as though war should have cleansed him of general manners and gratitude.

A short moment of quiet passed over them, the fire in the small iron pot crackling and filing the air with a smoke that was, for once, unrelated to war.

"Seriously, though. Grady's right, you don't look so good." He took a sip of coffee and winced at the bitterness; more than likely, it wasn't the best thing for an unsettled stomach.

"Best not be contagious –" Grady said pointing a finger at him; kicked his booted foot at him but Bible knew the man meant nothing by it. They shared close quarters, sure, but he knew it was the man's own brand of concern.

"Jus' sayin', you don't want me droppin' one of them heavy shells on your head, Gordo, and all cause of the plague Bible's got - " As he said it he looked up at him, his brow upturned in concern, his lip upturning in a small sneer as it often did when he was unhappy with something.

"It'll pass," he said, echoing Don's words because it was true; they'd all been sick or injured before while on deployment, "just mind the beans, Grady."

Grady, to his surprise, fell silent and turned his attention back to the can in front of him. The smell wasn't exactly appetizing, not after the ride he'd just had, but he wasn't about to pass it up, even though his stomach rolled when the wind brought the smell to him.

He closed his eyes, hands around the mug, and let his mind drift; it followed the same tether it always did when he had a moment of respite. It drifted towards psalms and prayers, towards his too short days n the seminary and towards things lighter than this.

He must have lost some time because suddenly Grady was there in front of him, crouched and handing him a tin bowl; a comparatively generous helping of beans steamed inside.

"Thank you, Grady." Again, the man huffed, a smirk playing on his lips.

"Don't start now." He warned, his words catching briefly on a cough. The man, when riled enough by those two words, would sometimes go off on a tangent, wondering what to be thankful _for._ Grady would then accuse him of preaching too much and Don would inevitably have to intervene when things got physical, which nowadays, happened more often than not. He had _never_ been one for getting physical or rough but Grady, God help him, brought it out in him. He suspected the man enjoyed it.

Instead.

"You're welcome." Grady said with a too wide smile; Bible wasn't a dumb man and knew it was a thing half formed in mocking but the other half, well, there was something sincere there.

He couldn't help but give a small smile of his own, despite what followed.

"Thankful for a can a beans –"

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><p>He woke suddenly from his restless half sleep - the one he didn't realize he'd fallen into - to the sounds of retching. Not uncommon in wartime but still unpleasant.<p>

The source of the misery was no mystery to him and he only needed to look over a few paces from the tank to find the man. Boyd was leaned over, legs unsteady and hands resting on his knees as he bent over and spit into the mud and, more than likely, his lost dinner.

"Gordo –" Don hissed down at the man laid out on the tarpaulin almost immediately the man was sitting up, looking up at him and ready to move.

"Dig out the salts; see if anyone can spare some fresh water." They had used the last of theirs over dinner and coffee and had had one of their larger reserves punctured by a stray piece of shrapnel that had been sent their way by an exploding tank.

The man didn't need to be asked twice, rarely did in fact, and moved quickly, giving their waylaid brother a quick glance as he climbed into Fury.

Don hopped off the tank and made his way over to the swaying figure, his hand landing tentatively on his back; to his credit the man flinched, ready to fight, before understanding and releasing the tension in his shoulders.

"Going for a walk?" Don said, his voice filled with some small humor, or at least that's what it sounded like; he wasn't sure what it really was anymore.

The man didn't answer.

"Bible." He tried, his voice low, his tone similar to the one he used over the comms. If anything, it demanded attention.

"Yes, sir. Saw 'em, just checkin - " Boyd's accent was thicker than usual; the man spat once more before straightening and Don tried to catch his eye, his own gaze narrowing in suspicion.

"Good man." Don's suspicions of delirium were confirmed when he caught the man's terribly glossy gaze, the way he blinked slowly as though half asleep.

"No, sir." He didn't know what the man had meant, until suddenly he did and it made him hold a little tighter to the man's jacket.

"Ain't a good man. Done too much killin'," his voice was utterly broken and far too intentional; it sounded like a confession he'd had brewing for a long time, something he'd become familiar with, "done too much –"

The war had frayed them all; they'd all become something else throughout the years, had undergone transformations that had left them scarred and hanging on by threads.

This was new, even to him, and it was something that had been lying in deep wait. It made him sick.

"Enough of that." He said in a tone that was hard to argue with, though he knew if anyone could argue with him, successfully, it was Bible. "This isn't you talking."

It was the fever because it had to be; Don wouldn't accept otherwise.

"'M a sinner, Don." The man's eyes are red, welling with the impossible sorrow he knew lay within them all. His grip tightened again and that fire that burned inside him raged. It was the thing that came out whenever he saw a Kraut, the thing that kept him calm and true in the heat of battle.

"God forgives all, you know that." It felt wrong to be the one preaching, and to a man they called _Bible_, but the words came easily because, when it came to this man, he believed them.

He pushed the ailing man into a sitting position, back on the tarpaulin, Grady shifting slightly on the other end.

"Nothin' can clean away what I've done." He said it with conviction and it sounded damning, like the men that stood on podiums and cursed your soul as you walked by. "Done too much –"

The man muttered to himself and Don could do was put his around the man's shoulders; it was bullshit that this was all he could offer as the man shook with whatever had made him so ill, as he stared ahead, eyes burning with images only he could see.

"Top." Gordo called out as he approached, a water tin with _Murder Inc._ scrawled on the side in one hand and an army issue package of hydrating salts in the other.

"Gordo? He get 'r started?" He was grateful for Gordo's appearance; if anything it had broken the fevered man's train of thought. Hearing the man explore his fracturing faith was enough to shake his own resolve and he didn't need that, couldn't afford it.

"Started, man, what –" Gordo trailed off as he took in Boyd's appearance, sweat trailing down his temples and his gaze cloudy and altered.

"Gordo, get those in him. Did you see Harrison on your walk?" He fished a rag out of his back pocket – it was as clean as any other they'd find – and gestured for the water, pouring some over the rag and, without bothering to ring it out, slapping it on the back of his gunner's neck.

The man's only reaction was to dip his head a bit lower, in what the tank commander hoped to be relief.

"Yeah, he's down with Lucy Sue – " Gordo took the water back, intent on preparing the OHS and frowned, "we're heading out at dawn; he gonna be okay to move?"

"I'm fine, Gordo –" The man surprised them both and they both turned their heads to look at him, trying to judge if the comment had been born of true lucidity or habit.

He didn't say anything further, didn't move, didn't do anything; Don wasn't willing to call it lucidity but he had some hope.

"We'll get him there." They didn't have an option. They didn't have the luxury of travelling with an outfit as grand as a battalion; they were first defense, first to move, first to scout and lay the path. It was just the tanks, a jeep and a handful of men on foot; they hardly had a field hospital on hand.

His best bet was to find Harrison - the primary medic in their platoon - and get what he could to set his gunner right and get him back on his feet.

He left Boyd to Gordo, giving the gunner a final pat on the back; he thought about mentioning the brief conversation he'd managed with the man, thought about warning Gordo, but he didn't want to repeat it. Didn't want it to be heard again.

If he did, it might just break him.

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><p>Thank you for reading; part two will be up soon and then onto Wardaddy. Thanks again :-)<p> 


	2. a short prayer for the sick, II

**In Arms**

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><p><strong>AN:** Thank you all so much for reading and a special thank you to JM Ramos, Cookiecoolcat, cchickki, bbella13, Rita, Kurochan12, valix22 and SiriusDancer for taking the time to let me know what you think. It is very appreciated and helps make me write faster! I hope you enjoy the second chapter!

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><p><strong>a short prayer for the sick, part II<strong>

Harrison had given what he could, which wasn't much – a single IV and a fever reducer – but it had cleared the dullness in the man's eyes and had put him back on his feet.

Cleared for duty, Harrison had said, his voice morose and sounding more appropriate for the delivery of terrible news.

They both knew it was a generous assessment.

After that Harrison had hung his head in that way they all do and wished them luck.

Don nodded because there wasn't much for it and it was better than nothing. They were on the move and they couldn't break ranks. They couldn't turn back and there was nowhere to send the sick or injured.

It was just the nature of war and his men were the instruments. They, like hundreds before them, would succumb – during or after, it never mattered _when_ - and war would push their bodies aside, uncaring and faceless.

Still, even as Boyd came back to himself, even as he pushed that haunted look away, even as Don tried to convince himself that they were indeed just tools of destruction, the man's fevered words echoed in Don's head like gunfire.

He held tight to the comm. and scanned the trampled vineyard to his left and the woods to his right and pushed it away for later, just as he did with anything that made him feel _human._

Fear, regret, _worry,_ those had no place in war.

He ordered the tank forward and tried to forget that it was in these moments that he hated himself the most.

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><p>Grady watched Bible and the way his foot bounced up and down; shoot, if they hadn't been riding together for the past two years it would make him nervous. It looked like his foot would just jump right up and tap that petal, sending one of those heavy ass shells towards nothing.<p>

They were a team, he figured, him and Bible. He loaded the gun and Bible pulled the trigger. Yes sir, a team; because of that they knew each other's habits, and he knew that Bible did that when he was stressed and when the odds were against them.

Usually the man sat there and read, or smoked and most often did his best to ignore him. It had started out annoying, being ignored, but had quickly turned into a way to pass time; Grady had very early on learned the small joy of provoking him into what was some stimulating conversation.

Hell, the man thought Hitler was saved and that he and Jesus were just as good of buddies as he and Bible. Grady knew it weren't true but he wasn't one to turn down entertainment.

But he wasn't doing any of those things now, save for the ignoring him. He was leaned over, one eye closed, as he peered down the periscope. Every so often he'd reach up and wipe sweat from his temples and forehead, looking positively green.

"Bible –" He hissed at the man; when they were on the move it was just the two of them, with Wardaddy up top and Gordo and Red's heads poked out of their hatches like prairie dogs. If they whispered, they'd found, the others couldn't hear them all that well over Fury's constant noise-making.

It sounded juvenile, probably was, but they'd found that out in the beginning, back when they'd been relatively fresh. They'd spent the first month of deployment together … riling each other up; he figured that was the best word for it.

He couldn't say a damn word about nothing - killing, fucking, drinking – not a word because his gunner just had to be the most uppity, God-lovin' son of a bitch in the whole army. He couldn't go a sentence without the man calling him depraved, and likewise, he couldn't stop touching the gunner, poking him, trying to get a physical rise.

Needless to say, Collier hadn't taken kindly to it, had kicked at him, telling him to shut his mouth while scuffing the back of Bible's helmet; a fluid all at once movement that had left them feeling like stupid kids.

"Bible –" He threw a spent shell at the man and hell, he flinched something fierce.

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><p>Images swam through the periscope - lines, dots, starbursts – all things he knew to be in his probably fevered head, but at least he was feeling significantly less nauseous and significantly less confused.<p>

He'd been out of it that morning, apparently, and honestly didn't remember much. He didn't even really remember really climbing into Fury. Though that wasn't right. Harrison had stopped by, that he knew. He remembered a pinch in the crook of his arm and the bitter taste of medicine. God awful stuff, really.

From the way his bones ached he could tell it was like putting a piece of gauze on a bullet wound.

"Bible –" Grady hissed from his left side but he didn't turn. He had just gotten used to looking through the scope. Changing scenery would surely set him back.

"Bible –" Grady threw something at him and he flinched; the movement sending waves of discomfort through him.

"What, Coon-Ass?" He said, sounding about as short as he could.

"Jus' makin' sure you weren't asleep." He knew full well when the man was trying to get a rise out of him and this wasn't it; his voice sounded genuine, despite the fact that he clearly hadn't been sleeping.

He ventured a look back at the man and he wasn't smiling. He looked worried.

"How many fingers 'm I holdin' up." He was holding up three fingers and he looked dead serious, as though it were a reliable diagnostic tool for whatever he was looking for.

"Three, Grady." He said it as though it was the most tiring thing he's ever done. He could see fine, in a way; he wasn't seeing double, not anymore. He just couldn't clear, his eyes tracing shadows and flecks that were a precursor to unconsciousness. It felt a lot like falling asleep.

"Just checkin'." He said looking only slightly less upset and it was a strange thing to see; but then again, it had been a while – if you could count two months a while – since one of them had been laid out or in a bad way.

And he was, he supposed; was willing to admit it now that he could really feel the pull of exhaustion and was bordering on being out of commission. A liability.

"Ok, boys, look alive." Grady moved back into position, strong hands ready to load and Bible peered back into the periscope.

It brought forth a small rush, focusing his vision and steeling his will; he needed to perform for his team. He said a brief internal prayer, asking for strength and the protection of his team.

Falaise was no more than half a mile away; he just had to hold out for a little while longer.

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><p>There were a few unknowns on the way but he responded to Don's requests, turning the turret right, left and center.<p>

Remarkably they made it to Falaise without an issue and were just now entering the surprisingly intact village. It was very quiet and that never settled well with any of them; there were nights where they were all kept up by silence and would only fall asleep when they could hear the rattling of gunfire in the distance. It was the same in battle – silence put them on edge more than anything else could.

And then there it was – the sound of an explosion, a detonated grenade. He could hear the men outside yelling, from behind.

"Bible, 180 –" His hands landed on the power traverse and hell, if it weren't slow. They spun at what felt like an agonizing pace and finally they were facing a clock tower.

He didn't take as much time as he should because if he had the image never would have stopped its strange sloping movement.

"On one!" Bible yelled into the comm, his head pounding in response and his vision wavering; he blinked multiple times as he peered down the periscope.

When he was sure the shot was lined up, he tapped the pedal – Fury did as expected, rocketing the shell towards the target with painfully loud machinations and Grady too did as he was expected, grabbing another shell and hastily preparing it, last round sent and forgotten.

They did as expected but he did not.

The round flew off into the distance and disappeared; there was not telling where it would go.

He blinked, looking again, hoping, but the tower was still in tact.

He could see the flash of a scope catching the sun, a crack of gunfire and then Don's knees planting themselves in his back.

"Don!" He called out, sending panic throughout the tank; his stomach dropped and it was pure miserable desperation, a need to know he man was okay that had him pulling his attention from the periscope.

He turned right into Don's unhappy – albeit slightly stunned - gaze; there was a tuff of cottony material poking out from his helmet and the goggles had fallen off. The relief over his realization that his mistake hadn't cost the man his life was immense.

"A graze, keep your head, Bible!" The man grabbed at the back of his helmet, forcing him to turn his attention back towards his job.

The whole thing cost them no more than two seconds but he knew how long that translated to in war. The man could have destroyed a tank in that time, could have called in information to his battalion.

Fury's hull sounded with gunfire and the whistle of a rocket came and went, surely a near hit.

"Damnit, Bible, I need you to perform. Again!" Don smacked the back of his helmet. He changed his aim, lowering the turret, his foot bouncing in anticipation, sweat dripping down his back and he called out to Grady who had already been in motion.

"Grady!" His heart was hammering uncomfortably in his chest; he missed, sometimes, when tanks were moving, but he usually didn't miss by this large of a margin and not when it was a building.

"Loaded!" As soon as he heard the man's voice he tapped his foot against the pedal and this time, thank God, he hit his target. The once beautiful tower exploded, sending rubble to the street.

He didn't have anytime to spare a word of thanks to anyone – Don for getting his head on straight, the good Lord for not calling Don at that particular moment, whatever power was keeping him conscious - as Don was in his ear again; he was shouting at Red and Gordo to get them moving and Fury lurched with a miserable heave.

"Bible, 50 degrees right –" It was luck that had him moving the turret just before the man spoke; his instincts and muscle memory were kicking in, responding to Fury's movements.

"I see it, I see it –" _It_ was a two men team attempting, with haste, to reload a rocket launcher; they had managed to hunker down behind a massive slab of upturned brick and soil, their heads bobbing up and down as they worked.

Red and Gordo couldn't hit them, despite their best efforts, and Fury would ground out in the massive pit that separated them should they attempt to just try and run them over.

As he lowered the turret, an uneven spray of gunfire hit the thick glass of his periscope with loud, resonating _thunks_; he flinched back as his vision once again swam.

"Come on man, get 'em!" Grady hit his shoulder, hard; he did that sometimes, when he was stressed, when he could sense that whatever was going on outside wasn't good.

A moment later he was lined up – just as the man with the launcher was moving into firing position - and his foot hit the pedal.

The round didn't have far to travel and it was only a millisecond after discharge that the damn thing exploded, filling his periscopic view with bright white light.

"They're down." Don said, voice weary, into the comm.; it had been a close call. They wouldn't have been the first tank taken down by a rocket launcher. At that range luck wouldn't have had any bearing on the outcome. They would've popped open, flames and all, just like that.

There was no sound through the comm. and Boyd realized that Don must have been communicating with the rest of the platoon; he had no doubt that the previously innocuous looking town had been razed to the ground in those past minutes.

He took a deep, ragged breath in a vain attempt to stop the irritating quake in his hands. His heart was beating erratically in his chest and the terrible lightheaded feeling from before was back, quickly robbing him of his senses.

He was pretty sure Gordo was looking at him. He _knew_ Grady was looking at him because the man was sat only a foot from him, close enough that he could feel him breathing; Red was the only one who knew when best to mind his own and a glance confirmed he was staring straight ahead at nothing, cigarette dangling between two fingers.

"Okay, boys; park her next to Murder Inc." The engine revved and Boyd kept his gaze on his feet. He wasn't ready, at that particular moment, to face what was understandably written across their features.

He'd nearly gotten them killed, after all.

* * *

><p>The adrenaline that had assisted him through the battle – the same that had in all its divinity kept him from getting his team killed – left as soon as they rolled to a stop.<p>

"Bible –" It was Gordo who was speaking to him. Though, through the warbling in his ears he couldn't really tell. It could've been Grady, though the man, historically, was louder than that.

He moved to stand but didn't get far because Fury was cramped and it took some finesse to navigate her. Instead he found himself tipping sideways as he reached out for a beam he had been certain was there.

It wasn't – it was a good foot to his left – and his hand met empty air. The rest of him was quick to follow.

Hands grabbed at him, but the angle was awkward; Fury's dirty iron deck came up fast to meet him and was unforgivingly hard.

* * *

><p>Gordo had never seen Bible miss that badly; <em>claro<em>, he missed on occasion, when Fury and everything else was moving something fast, but a building? No, _nunca._

It made him angry, the kind of angry that made you see red and made your heart race. The kind that made him get in fights and throw sloppy shit punches. But he wasn't angry at Bible. No, he was angry at Don and Harrison, at war, too, he guessed.

He had sat with the man while Don had run off to get him sorted; he had sat there and listened to him talk about the evil in him while he tried to make the man drink those terrible hydration salts, helped him _poner parches._ He had been half delirious himself, with drink, and he couldn't deal with that.

Bible knew him, knew his own faith wavered on occasion; knew that with each bullet, each drink, each day he lost a bit of himself. The man knew he had gone into battle sober _once_ and then, after that, never again, despite his earnest attempts to keep him from the bottle.

But in that moment, Bible hadn't been himself; he hadn't been, because Bible knew that his own faith was what supported Gordo's and – _chingados_, if he weren't a selfish asshole – Bible wouldn't have confided in him, not about this.

Gordo had sat, had listened, because Bible was as good as a brother to him, but it had hurt him deep. Bible was as good as his spiritual foundation, his spiritual cement, in a way; all he had been able to do was throw an arm around him, toe at the mud and tell him to hush.

Now they sat in silence as they waited for Don's orders; the sounds of battle were farther away and he figured they were setting to regroup. Red lit a cigarette beside him, minding his own, staring at that picture of his girl, while he turned around to look at their gunner.

The man's hands were shaking and he was in the middle of a staring match with the floor. He looked worse than he had that morning and he had no doubt that the battle hadn't done him any favors.

"Okay, boys; park her next to Murder Inc." Don brought his attention back to Fury and he got her going again; the trip was short and he was glad for it. They all needed to get their heads back on straight.

He took a deep breath, hand gravitating towards the near empty bottle at his feet; he stopped, however, an inch short, and instead turned around. The bottle could wait.

"Bible –" Gordo said, intending to check in; the man hadn't said a damn word in a while and neither had Don or Grady.

Grady, too, was looking at the man but in the way someone looked at something they were unsure of. Finally the man moved, pushing himself off the gunner's chair in a way that looked pained and uncomfortable.

The motion paled him considerably and Gordo watched as he tried, and failed to steady himself; Gordo called out to Grady just as Bible passed out.

Grady responded, grabbing at his jacket awkwardly, but was unable to catch him fully; they both went down with a loud thump. The turret basket was suddenly crowded as Don dropped down – he'd been on the radio and now the thing was dangling by its wire into the tank, moving back and forth, completely forgotten.

"_Puta madre –"_ Gordo grunted as Red moved beside him, accidentally kicked him square in the jaw, as he popped his hatch and leapt out, calling for a medic.

* * *

><p>The medic arrived just as they managed to manhandle Boyd out of the tank and onto the ground. Grady was patting the man's cheek, coaxing him to wake up – "come on, man, wake up, come on you Bible-thumpin' sonnuva-bitch–" – but wasn't getting anywhere.<p>

The man was out.

"He hit?" The medic fell to his knees, his pack already open and ready to be used, gauze poking out, some of it stained with small spots of red. The man hesitated, unable to find a wound and Don spoke up from where he was kneeled, opposite of Grady.

"No, ain't hit. Been sick." The man looked up at Don but the tank commander's gaze was fixed on the gunner's face; the medic put his hand on the gunner's neck feeling for his pulse, pulled a lid back and checked his pupil.

"How long?" The medic glanced behind him, Gordo paced back and forth, watching. The medic took Boyd's hand, pinched the skin on the back.

"Two days, about." Don said, though he couldn't know when he'd started feeling unwell; the man never would have said anything. None of them would have, "Took in an IV this morning, hydrating salts, too."

"Nah, he threw those up on the way here –" Grady said; Don frowned. It was news to him.

"Well, he's dehydrated, no doubt about that. Malnourished," he said it as though it were a given because, well, it was; they were _all_ malnourished, "got a good fever."

"His pulse is thready, erratic, probably from dehydration and a little bit of heat stroke." As he said it he wiped sweat from his own brow, as though his words only just reminded him of the horrific heat.

Don looked over at the Sherman and cursed himself. The thing was a fucking oven. He should have made him ride up top, should have dragged his ass up there instead of allowing him to wallow in the hellish, metallic heat.

The man then put his hand on Bible's chest, waited for a moment, and sighed.

"Breathings shallow." Dehydration, again, Don knew. It was a really sneaky killer; he remembered, back in basic, how they tried to drill that into them. Keep hydrated. Take in more than you lost. It was rule number one of basic human survival.

"Ok, so? What the hell we do?" Grady spat, impatient and not liking the man's assessment. Don didn't blame him. He didn't like it much either. He'd pushed the man – hadn't much choice, sure – and now here before him were the consequences. He'd thoroughly run the man into the ground.

"He needs more fluids. A lot of more." As he said it he pulled a glass jar of saline solution from his bag, along with a yellow tube and a mean looking needle. He rolled up Boyd's sleeve, revealing a bruise from that morning's IV in the crook of his elbow; it didn't stop him. He slid the needle in, taped it down and handed Grady the bottle and then looked to Don.

"He needs to stay off his feet. You don't want this getting worse." He said it flat and monotone, his voice dropping because they all knew that wasn't an easy thing to do.

"They're setting up triage in the church," the man turned and pointed down the street, from where he had come. "Bring him there; I'll check in. Sargent."

He gave Don a nod and supervised as Don and Grady lifted the limp man upwards, to his feet though he was incapable of supporting himself, before turning back towards the church.

"Gordo, Red, check and repair. Took some dings back there. Meet us at the church when you're done." Don said as he shifted his weight; he could feel the heat of Boyd's fever through his clothes. It made him nervous.

"Hell, Top –" The man didn't get to finish.

"Come on, Gordo." Red said, pulling at Gordo; Don was grateful for that, the man rarely argued and had much cooler head than their driver.

The two men turned away, Gordo reluctantly, and Don and Grady turned, stumbling a little as they tried to find an even pace and steady footing.

"Fuck." Grady spat as they dragged the man between them, his left hand clenching the glass bottle the medic had handed him. "Shoulda been watchin' him better."

"Quiet, Grady." Don hissed over Boyd's bowed head; he wasn't in the mood. Not even a little.

"You was ridin' him too hard." Grady's voice picked up, the man near shouting into Boyd's ear, but the man was well and truly out and didn't so much as stir.

"Goddamnit, I'm not going to do this with you right now." This was Grady's way he got overwhelmed. In battle he could be counted on, was reliable as hell, but before and after saw him changed and full of fear; full of anger. They were all used to his outbursts by now but damn if they didn't annoy the fuck out of him.

The man huffed, disgust catching in his throat; Don knew if they hadn't been carrying Boyd he probably would have lashed out.

He would've welcomed it, probably; their spirits were as low as could be and he was done with this fucking day.

* * *

><p>"Bible is gonna love wakin' up to this –" Grady said as they laid Bible down in a pew, his feet hanging into the aisle. In the pew across from them was a dying boy – bullet to his femoral, or so the man standing over him said.<p>

The church wasn't anything special. Most of the stained glass had been blown out and the pulpit had been torn to the ground; the sounds of the wounded echoed off its high ceilings and it was dark.

Still, Boyd would appreciate it, would find beauty in it. He squeezed the man's hand, looked around, and tried to understand.

* * *

><p>Red and Gordo joined them a few hours later, reporting the damage and repairs before take a seat in the pew in front of the one Bible and Don were occupying; Grady was seated in the pew behind them, slouched over, arms dangling between Boyd and Don.<p>

They stayed like that for a long while.

Boyd came to slowly as each muscle awoke one by one; each one felt sore, sticky, even. His head ached terribly but he was thinking clearly, even with the slight ring in his ears.

He tried his best to open his eyes but it was a slow battle; after what seemed like a good and long while, he managed to pry his heavy lids open.

Don was leaned over him; the corner of his lips lifted very slightly, though you could hardly call it a smile.

"Damn. I owe Grady twenty." Don sighed; the man seemed to owe everyone in the army twenty. "Though you wouldn't be up 'till morning."

"'M sorry –" Don frowned, misunderstood.

It was the first thing that came to Boyd's mind because if he remembered anything with frightening clarity it was missing that sniper's perch and Don getting shot right in the helmet.

"Messed up." Don gave him a hard look and shook his head.

"No. you got 'em. Did just fine." Don said, all matter of fact-like; he supposed it should have bee comforting but he remembered the way Don had looked at him, remembered the silence after.

"You know how this speech goes, Boyd." Don's voice was calm, subdued; Boyd hadn't been expecting that. He'd been expecting an earful. "You wrote it."

Boyd let out an airy breath, something akin to a laugh. He knew what he meant; he couldn't count the times he had to drag Don down from his tower of needless guilt. He was too tired, too _exhausted_, to drag Don and himself through that process, for for now he let it go. It would come back later, sure enough, but for now …

Boyd blinked owlishly, fatigue pulling at him, and glanced around. He couldn't see much but what he could see was interesting.

"Where are we?"

Don smiled for real this time, an honest smile.

"Looks like the good Lord watches over his own." Boyd's brow furrowed briefly.

"A church?" He realized that must be it; he was laid out in a pew. Imagine that.

"Yep. A nice one."Don said without any commitment; Bible couldn't help a small smile. He had no doubt the man felt no more interest in it than he would a barn.

"Well, I'll be." Don nodded and gave his shoulder a pat before reaching over towards a pot of coffee he hadn't known was brewing. Don poured him a cup and told him to drink.

They don't talk about him being sick. They don't need to.

* * *

><p>The company stayed in Falaise for two days and it was just enough to get Boyd back on his feet, even with Grady poking at him when he was trying to rest and with Gordo trying to get him to eat some god-awful mix of rice and canned meat he'd cooked up in an empty ammo tin.<p>

The exhaustion would take some time to ebb away and leave him for good, but when they roll out and do their comm. check, and he hears their voices, all of them _alive_, Boyd feels his hear lift a little. It feels a little bit like going home.

* * *

><p>Thank you for reading, as always!<p> 


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